MERIT Man
by Chanse Lowell
Summary: AH ExB It can take 5 to 6 yrs for an inmate in the state prison in LA to get a job, let alone get into the MERIT life skills program. One lucky inmate, Edward, is offered a position regardless of seniority, and once involved, he makes his teacher's life hell. Miss I knows how to kick ass though, and she's not afraid to hand him his ass, or fantasize about doing more. *Slow burn*
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"This will be good for you," my counselor, Thomas, says, shaking his salt and pepper head. His gray eyes look hopeful, and the bracketed lines around his eyes speak of years' worth of dedication to people like me.

Despite his age he keeps in good shape and is always full of energy.

I blink. "Yeah, you keep saying that." I shift away from the paperwork set in front of me.

"What do you have to lose? You know this is quite the opportunity—most guys in here wait five or six years before they can get into this program or get a job in the joint. I'm offering something that can improve your life now and in the future." He smiles. "You're the perfect candidate, and I'm willing to push my weight around to get you in." He sighs. "So, I ask once more . . . What. Do. You. Have. To. _Lose_?"

Uh, respect of the other inmates, that's what. I stare past him at the yellow wall.

Who fucking likes yellow? This isn't a damned pediatrician's office. It's a counselor's office, for fuck ups like me.

"Just think about it. Take a few nights to ponder what you want your life to be like when you're released. How many guys that get out of here come right back?" he asks, drumming his fingers on the desk.

"Most of them," I grunt and sniff. "So what?"

"So? _So_?" He leans forward. "Do you want to be incarcerated for the rest of your life? Being in prison isn't a career for you, Cullen. You're too goddamn smart and talented. Frankly, I'm surprised you've lasted the last six months as well as you have. If it hadn't been for McCarty watching your back . . ."

"I fucking survive because I know how this shit works!" I glare at him.

He shoves a pack of smokes toward me.

"I don't need these courses," I huff, grab a cigarette and wave my hand at him for a light.

He passes me his lighter, and the second I've got that fucker wrapped between my lips and lit up, I can breathe again.

"C'mon, you know this'll help. MERIT's a good program. It'll give you skills, help you focus on something other than working out all the time. It'll keep you out of trouble."

"Look—I haven't had my ass in solitary in over three months." I slap my palm on my thigh. "And I didn't start that shit—I told you that fucker stole my shampoo."

"I know the story—I'm only saying—"

"Save your breath, T. I'm not doing it."

"McCarty is," he says, face expressionless.

"No way." My eyes go big.

The fucker has teeth like a shark as he grins at me. They're all crooked and shit, and he looks like he just took a bite out of my ass.

"Yeah. He's already given me his paperwork. Talk to him about it. I'm sure he has his reasons for why he thinks this would be a good idea. Ask him why he signed on," he says, nodding at the papers before me.

"Fuck you." I snag them up, drop my cigarette on the floor and motion for the guard to let me out.

I'm brought back to my bunk, and McCarty smirks at me from his bunk across from mine.

"Fuck you," I grumble under my breath as I slam my body down onto my squeaky bed.

My triple bunk knocks up against the two it's sandwiched between, and I can almost imagine the twenty triple bunks toppling over like dominoes.

I wish. It would be a nice change of pace.

"He told you?" he asks.

"I've got the paperwork, don't I?" I refuse to look at this asshole.

"Yeah. But obviously, it's not for you. It's not for dudes who already have some college education and think they're smarter than Socrates."

I snort. "It's pronounced sock-ruh-tees, not so-crates. He's not a container to carry your shit in," I say, chuckling.

He throws his pillow at me. "Fuck, I think I just lost a testicle—that so fucking girly. Who the fuck cares what his fucking name is?"

I do. "Whatever."

"So, you gonna do it?"

"Why should I?" I drop the papers on my stomach, groan and close my eyes.

"There's gonna be women there."

"Yeah, nasty butt-ugly women desperate for dick, and I'm not into fucking ugly old women who are book worms."

"Hell no! I've been told they're young, pretty and horny as fuck."

"This isn't some damn orgy," I say, snickering. "Whoever the hell told you all that shit lied. They're not going to send in women like that, and if even if they did, it's not like you'll get to touch them. They're snobs, Emmett, pure and simple. They think they're better than us, and I could probably teach the fucking classes better than they could. They're here because it's probably community service they've gotta do because they crashed their daddy's Porsche or flashed their tits at a cop during a college frat party or some cheesy shit like that."

He plops down on his bunk, making the frame clack against the others surrounding his as well. "Fine. Be a stubborn fuckhead. I'll show you my hickeys later and claw marks on my back after I've gotten laid by a leggy blonde with big tits, and not the fake kind. I'm talking about those real juicy ones that bounce all over when I'm nailing her on her desk." He holds his hands out above his chest, pretending to cup some woman's tits.

I bark a laugh. "Yeah, and you're gonna do that _how_? With a Taser up your ass? The guards are there. What the hell is all this stupid shit you're spouting off? You make no sense." I throw his pillow back at his big stupid melon of a head.

He picks it up and shoves it under his head.

"Seriously, man." He lowers his voice so no one else can hear, not that there are many people around right now. Most of them are out in the yard or in the rec room. "I'll probably be out of here soon, and since it's my fault you're in here . . ." He shakes his head, looking annoyed with himself. "Hey, I just heard back from Blake. Sam's not doing so hot. He's involved with that gang again, and into some really hardcore shit. He almost got caught again. He's breaking parole, so I'm sure they'll throw his ass back in here." He swallows. "He hates his job they set him up with, and he was bored as shit. He was going nowhere, so he went back to what he always knew. The bitches and the—"

"Drugs," I fill in his sentence for him.

"Yeah." Emmett runs his hands over his face and inhales with a loud, slurping sound like he's being snapped out of a trance.

"Okay, you stupid bastard, I'll consider it." I pick up the papers and glance over them. All these assholes pictured on the front with their fake smiles make my stomach turn.

"You'll be glad you did it," he says.

"I didn't say yes."

"You didn't say no, either."

"Fucker."

"Dog dick." He kicks his bed frame.

"That's horse dick to you. I'm the one that's hung around here." I smirk.

"Tell that to Bruce. He's still after your ass," he reminds me.

"Yeah. I know."

I read over the papers, and Emmett keeps staring.

"What?" I snap, turning my head toward him, glaring.

"Nothin'." He shrugs with a stupid-as-fuck grin on his face.

"Go do somethin' else. Can't a man read in peace around here?"

"That's all you do is read. You're always fucking reading," he complains.

"According to my counselor, Thomas, all I do is workout. Why do either of you give a fuck about what I do in here?" I toss the papers at him.

He picks them up, tidies them and shoves them under my book, set on the ground under my bunk. "I don't give a fuck what you do in _here_. It's what you do when you get out I care about. Because you and I are business partners. You're gonna make me millions when you get out."

I smirk and kick the end of my bed frame like he did with his a moment ago.

"Yeah—I'm sure the money will roll right in the door. And besides, the whole damn point of being in here, and the whole damn point of what you're saying is that we won't go back to a life of a crime after we get out of here."

"I didn't fucking say that. I said, we don't wanna come back here. That means we've got to be smarter, so we don't get caught again." He smacks the edge of my bed frame and walks off.

"Motherfucking know-it-all dick." I pick the papers back up, and read the rest of it, but this time without prying eyes involved.

**A/N:**

**Well, what do you think? Questions? Thoughts? If anyone knows of any facebook fan fic groups that are for prisonward fics, let me know…**

**Please don't kill me either for writing a new story; I swear I'm going to finish **_**a Clean Slat**_**e. I'm still working on it, and only have 5 more chapters left to write on it. I plan to update that one in a few days.**

**I wrote this story because it was kind of my warm up exercise before I wrote my sequel to **_**Slick as Ides**_**, called **_**Catching Vapors**_**. After starting on the research for that story, I wound up finding out a ton about the prison system in Los Angeles, California. It was crazy—the personal stories I was reading online, and I wanted to share some of that info that I didn't necessarily need for my sequel.**

**Also, just an FYI, I've already written the first 7 chapters and have outlined it to be about 20 chapters. I plan to update once a week. ;D Prepare for a sloooooow burn.**

**Thanks so much for reading!**

**Chanse**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Take ten this time!" Warren shouts, and ten guys descend on me.

"Oof, oofuuuh, uuuuungh!" I explode with my legs and knees, punching, shoving and backing myself the hell up.

"C'mon, Bella! Don't let them take you to the ground! Stay on your feet!" Warren encourages from the side.

"It's. Isa-bella! Ungh!" I grunt, shoving someone else away.

He keeps shouting different moves for me to do.

I stumble backward, and _thwack_! I connect with someones head to my right.

He falls, and I lash out, jabbing the guy's face in front of me until he backs off.

When he's out of the way, I take the guy to my left, wrap my left hand behind his neck, and _craaaaash_!

My knee is in his face, and he crumples to the ground.

"Good! Keep movin'. Don't stop!" Next, Warren tells me more elbows, and asks why the hell I'm letting them back me up to the wall?

Two guys grab me by the elbows. I kick one in the groin from the side, and when his grip loosens, I twist to the left and knee him in the gut.

They both drop back, but I've still got five more guys coming at me, cornering me at the wall.

I duck under one of their arms, run like hell until I'm blocked by one of them that ran faster than I did.

"Groin! Go for his nuts!" Warren keeps telling me to move and where else to strike.

I swing and miss the guy in front of me, but when he leans over to grab me into a hug, I tackle him with my shoulder and he flies a foot away, landing on his ass.

Four more to go.

Sweat pours into my eyes, but I don't have time to wipe it away.

The stickiness of the padding I wear barely registers anymore, and when one of them clubs me on the back of the head, I'm glad I've got this helmet on since I'd almost refused it.

It sends me off balance, and my feet are swept out from under me.

"Stop! You're on the ground—you're dead!" Warren snaps, getting in my face.

He rips off my helmet. "Never ever let them put you on the ground!" His face turns red.

"I know!" I jump up to standing, pace and catch my breath. "I've never taken on ten before!"

"Well, if you're starting that job next week, you've gotta be prepared for this shit. If there's a riot—"

"There are guards there. It's a classroom environment," I say, glaring.

"Bullshit! Guards can't keep ten guys off you. They'll already be at your throat with pens, and those are as scary as knives!" He inhales like he's choking on the air. "Again! This time, I've given two of them knives. Disarm them before you worry about the rest. Because all they have to do is get two of their buddies to pin you to a wall, and you're screwed. Get those knives, and then you can duck, run and take them down one at a time. Fight dirty—you have to. That's what Krav Maga is all about. Be aggressive. You go for their eyes, their balls—you don't hold back, because they won't!"

"Fine."

"It's not fine! Beat them down, plow right through them. You get free. Don't ever let them get you backed up against the wall or on the ground. If you're down, you're gone." He points at two guys and tells them to get knives.

I've wiped down with a towel—ready to go again.

Well, as ready as I can be. I can barely breathe at this point.

"Actually . . ." Warren pauses ". . . I'm joining in. You take me down—prove you can handle me, and I'll stop riding your ass."

I shake my head. "We're not talking about that right now."

"Why?"

I step away from him so I can gear back up and pretend he's not interested in dating me.

"Why, Isabella?" He approaches me.

"You know why." I put on my helmet. "Get a knife, and let's go."

He grabs his weapon and gives me a confident look like he knows eventually I'll cave.

"How long have you been coming here?" he asks.

"Ten weeks," I reply.

"And how many times have I asked you out?"

I hold up my gloved hands. "Ten."

"Exactly. Two more, and I win a free haircut or something." He snickers.

"I need to get a new instructor," I tease him like I always do.

"But you won't, since I'm the best."

"You're also such an ass, it makes it easier to beat your head in because then I don't feel guilty afterward." I grin.

"Ready?"

I nod.

"Go!" He motions toward me.

Once more, I'm clobbered by ten guys. I manage to take out the first knife, but Warren's evading me, hiding out in the back.

But I know his tactics. He likes to sneak up from behind when I'm distracted.

So, instead of worrying about being backed up against a wall, I decide that's exactly what I'll do if it means he can't get at me from that angle.

"Wall! Get away from the wall," my friend Rose shouts.

"No!" I kick the guy's ankle in front of me and stomp on his calf when it looks like his leg's about to buckle. He knocks down the dudes behind him as he tumbles to the ground.

I jump off him to hammer punch the back of the head of the guy next to him.

He falls off balance, too, and I've got seven left to contend with.

Someone grabs me by the hair, pulling me back. I kick my foot behind me and hook him at the crotch, then twist to the right, rolling him to the ground, but he's still got hold of my hair, so I smash my elbow into his face.

"Ahhhh!" he screams, and his grip goes lax.

I whip my head back, breaking my hair free, and then there he is.

Warren's in my face and he's got me by the neck, the knife at my abs. And even though a rush of adrenaline twists my gut into a pretzel, and I can barely see straight or think, I head-butt him, shove my knee into his ribs, and knock the knife out of his hands.

He lunges at me, and someone from behind puts me into an almost full nelson when I drop to my knees, crash my shoulder into Warren's dick, and then roll away.

I spring to my feet, then break into a sprint.

Six more to go.

I grab one of the helmets off the wall, smash it into a guy's side, taking him down and then I manage to get the guy next to him into a hug.

He tries to slap me, push me away, but I slam him against the wall and scream as I pound his gut with my fists.

Someone yanks me from behind by the leg, and I fall on my face.

Four of the guys to the left descend on me, so I flip over on my back, kick the guy in the face that has hold of my left foot, and then roll out from under the mini-mob.

They clamber after me, and I pop back up, then run to the other end of the padded gym.

They're not far behind, and Warren's shouting at me now to use my knees. It's my best weapon of defense. I've got the most power in my knees.

Two of them barrel right toward me, and I jump out of the way, shoving one of them into the other, making them smash into the wall.

Two more to go.

There's an ache in my side the size of a fist, and I wonder if that was courtesy of Warren. Probably, since he does _not_ hold back.

I kick in the air, and right before I contact one of them in the head, he grabs my ankle and yanks, making me skid and almost land on my ass again.

Warren's already pissed I was on the ground. I can hear it in his tone. "Goddammit, Isabella—elbows, elbows, _elbows_!"

I squat down, and when the guy tightens his grip on my ankle, I pop back up, slip my leg up through his grip and then jab him in the eye with my fist.

He drops my leg, and I elbow him in the jaw, but the guy with him, knees me in the back.

I snap my right foot back, hit him in the thigh, then stomp on his groin a second later, taking him down.

There's still just the one guy in front of me, and he's massive.

"Use his weight!" Rose barks.

When he comes at me, his center of gravity pushed forward, I step to the side, give another hammer hit to the back of the neck, and when he stumbles, I knee him in the back, then ram my foot in the back of his knee.

He finally falls to the ground, and my lungs explode in fire as I finally dare to take a complete breath.

"Sssuuuuhhhhuuuuuuhhhh," I exhale and gasp, gripping my hips as I double over.

Warren tears off my mask. "Still not good enough. If that happens at the prison, you're screwed. It took you too long, and there will be at least thirty guys in there with you. Come back Friday—we'll double it to twenty guys."

"Yeah, can't wait." I rip off my gloves and reach for my bottle of water in my bag, hanging on the wall.

"Next time, I want you without the fingerless gloves. I want to see you grabbing hair, scratching, pretending to gouge out eyeballs. I'm not kidding—you go for the nuts, you blind them, you destroy them. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I get it—God!" I groan, then gulp down my water.

I remove my chest guard and hang it on the hook.

"Good." He smacks me on the back, and I swear it looks like he just beat a sponge since sweat flies off my soaked shirt.

My hair is pasted to my face. "See you." I wrap my towel around my hair like I've just showered because it's disgusting and too wet to think about.

He smirks at me, and I ignore it as I grab my own gear and leave.

Rose catches up to me. "That was great. It looked like a nightmare. I think Warren was taking it easy on you, though, so you'll finally say yes."

I grimace. "No he didn't. He beat the shit out of me."

"Really?" She pauses and gives me an incredulous look. "He normally lasts much longer than that."

"I'm not talking about stamina, I'm talking about speed. Did you see how fast he came at me? I didn't see him at all until he already had me by the throat. I was afraid I was going to vomit I was so scared." I hold my hands out. They're shaking like crazy.

"You okay to drive like that?"

"Yeah. I'll just sit and read for a few minutes before I take off. Listen to some calming music."

"Why did you ever sign up for this course? It seems like it freaks you out," she says, resuming her walk with me.

"It does. It almost gives me nightmares, but I have to be scared _here,_ so I won't be scared _there_. I can't afford to." I frown for a moment as my stomach tightens again over the thought of working at the prison. I want to more than anything, and I know I'm worried for nothing, but what if they hate me? What if they see right through me as a pathetic loser?

"Well, they asked me to take this course, too, but I told them I'm the yoga instructor for the inmates, not the teacher making them feel inferior. I'm not training to be a cop, so I don't need this stress."

I roll my eyes. "Yoga can be stressful, too. You ever seen a bunch of guys try to stretch and hold tree pose? They'll probably get pissed as hell they're not limber and have no balance at all. They're like a bunch of trees—all huge and muscled-up. I doubt any of them stretch a muscle ever unless they're reaching for the pull-up bar."

Her eyes go wide. "Then why do you wanna work there, if you think of them that way?"

I stop and grab her arm. "Hey, I'm sorry. You know I don't think of them that way. I'm just exhausted, a little worked up and worried, so I'm saying stupid stuff I don't mean. It's not a problem—I swear."

"I still don't get why you signed on as an L.A. Works instructor." She blinks and searches my face.

"I have to try. If Charlie had someone there to help him out, maybe things would've turned out differently for him." I stare at the asphalt. "I have to try—for _him_."

"You're not doing this for your brother—he's gone, and he wouldn't have wanted you to give up art for this," she says, pushing my arm off her.

"Well, you didn't know him for very long, so you're not the best one to judge this." I walk over to my car, unlock it and call out, "I'll see you Monday at L.A. Men's Central?"

She nods.

Why did I invite her tonight? I sigh. "I'd hoped tonight you'd see the value of these classes and sign up. Doesn't sound like I achieved that, though."

She taps her index finger on her leg. "Nope. Not at all. If I want ten men on top of me, I'll go clubbing instead. I bruise too easily."

I chuckle. "All right. I just figured since you're so gorgeous, you need to be able to handle yourself and watch your back around these guys."

"You've told me countless times, they're not animals and that Charlie said they were the nicest people he'd ever met."

"He did, but he's a guy. He's not sporting size D cups, like you are—not to mention blonde hair and blue eyes." I open my car door.

She waves silently, heads to her car, then gets in and leaves.

I slip into my car, rub the back of my left shoulder with my right hand, and wonder if I'll be able to walk tomorrow.

Why does my shoulder ache so badly? Did I get hit there? I don't remember.

I start the car, blast the AC, and sit, merely breathing.

What am I going to do about Warren?

He won't back off. He's not overly obnoxious about it, but how many times do I have to tell him I don't want to date him?

_Rap, rap, rap_.

I turn to my window to find him standing there, in a fresh pair of sweat pants, and a tight white tee.

I roll down my window. "My friend says you took it easy on me in there. Did you?"

"No. Why would I?"

I shake my head. "I have no idea." Well, I do, but I'm not gonna say.

"Are you heading home?" He stares at my lips.

"Yeah—_you_?"

"No. I thought I'd go out for a bite to eat. Care to join me?" His lips curl into some semblance of a smile. Really, it almost looks like he's sneering at me.

"Warren, I . . ."

"I know, I know—you don't think a teacher should ever date their students," he repeats my most used excuse on him.

"Exactly. There's a moral dilemma there."

"And my dilemma is I really like you. Just coffee—that's it. I swear I won't hit on you," he says, making those big brown puppy dog eyes at me.

He's hot. He's ripped, tall, with sexy shoulder-length dark brown hair, but I just don't click with him.

I sigh, letting my chest almost cave into my stomach. "Sorry, too tired. I'm not up for coffee—it'll keep me up all night, and right now all I wanna do is get home, shower and crash."

"I could help you with all of those," he says, lifting his eyebrows as if he's hopeful.

"No thanks."

"Not even a rain check?" He grips the window sill. "C'mon—you're killing me here. Just come with me—I'll order you a sandwich, a glass of beer, and I'll even walk you back out to your car. If someone tries to hit on you, I'll beat their ass down."

"Student," I say, pointing to myself.

"Desperate," he responds, hooking his thumb into his chest. "And hungry, hate to eat alone—I could keep going."

"I know you could, Warren, but my ears can only take so much of men whining tonight."

"Whining? Who was whining?" He pretends he's looking around for men doing just that, nearby.

I chuckle. "Didn't Tyler say something about how I kneed him in his boys unnecessarily? He left early because of me, remember?"

"Oh yeah . . ." He laughs. "I suppose he did. That was a great move. His fault he didn't put a cup on like he knew he was supposed to."

"Enjoy your meal." I press the button to slide the window back up.

He manages to choke out before it's all the way up, "Someday you'll say yes."

I wave. He acts like he'll kiss my window, and I want to laugh, but it's kind of gross.

He's kind of repellent to me, and I can't figure out why.

As I drive home, I finally figure it out.

The only time he's genuine, other than when he asks me out, is when he's teaching me how to rip out a perp's throat. When I'm fighting, he's in the moment. He's not bragging, trying to sell himself, convince me he's good for me or anything else. He's just unguarded and teaching.

And right now, I don't have time for men and their games.

I want to focus on work. I want to focus on me, and stop being haunted by Charlie, and all the things I never got to do with him.

God, I miss him.

A tear drips down my still sweat-dampened face, and I let it linger.

Sweat and tears, right? I need to toughen up.

So, I drive home, and tell myself, "This is for _m_e—Charlie would be proud."

**A/N:**

**I was inspired to write this story by several other stories and shows that inspired me. I love the show, Breaking Bad, and you'll understand how that influenced this story later. I love Orange is the New Black. Always loved Shawshank Redemption even if I'm not a Stephen King fan.**

**Now, from the fan fic world, I'm of course a PAW and Peaches fan—absolutely loved A Pound of Flesh by Jaxon22, and Inside Man by Ooza as well.**

**I also adore the Crossfire series by Sylvia Day, and in it, Eva takes Krav Maga courses, but we rarely see her kick butt in them, so I did some research online, and found the most amazing videos on . There's this 46 minute video with these two guys from Fight Quest that are both martial arts experts (one was even a soldier I believe in Iraq) and they go through a boot camp of sorts. It's insane the things they're taught, and the way they get their asses handed to them. Truly amazing. I'll try to post that video on my blog next week.**

**Of course, I had to combine all these things together to make my own crazy cocktail story, so **_**MERIT Man**_ **is what you get.**

**Let me know what you think… And am I the only one that had no idea that inmates could take yoga classes? I was surprised, but also pleasantly shocked. Sounds like a good way to help with anger management.**

**Chanse**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I slap the papers onto Thomas's desk. "Give me a cigarette, and I'll tell you what I think about this shitty mess."

"What the hell is this? I thought you weren't doing it? The class starts in twenty minutes," he says, staring at me like I'm insane.

"Well, you said to think about it, so I did." I wave my wrist so he'll give me a smoke.

He hands me one, even though it's not allowed, and growls, "I'm not some damn miracle worker. I don't know if they'll let you into the program last minute."

I blink, light up once he hands me his lighter and gaze impassively at his desk.

"Are you wasting my time here, Cullen? What's going on?" Thomas looks over the papers.

"No. I can see there's a point to the program. I'm not sure it's anything more than a ridiculous way for people on the outside to shove sunshine up my crack and sing 'Kumbaya,' but if it gets me out of the triple bunks in the gymnasium and into a smaller dorm, then I'll do it."

He eyes me with suspicion. "You'll do it? I mean, you'll really apply yourself?"

"Sure." I shrug my right shoulder. "Why the hell not."

"I expect you to behave. Don't get all lippy with the female instructors."

I smirk. "Mr. T—you know I'm anything but lippy with the ladies. I have other things I prefer to do with them."

He laughs every time I use that nickname on him since his last name is Thomas, and I only know his first initial is R. "Yeah, okay."

"So, sign me off and let's get this freak show started." I blow rings at him.

He grins, signs them and passes them back to me.

"Hand these to the guards outside the door, and I'll call up the MERIT director. I'm sure she'll be pleased to have another student join them."

I stand up, take my last few drags, then drop it on the ashtray he keeps for me at the corner of his desk when he knows I'll be in to see him. He's willing to bend minor rules like this since he knows it means I'll be more agreeable.

"See ya," I say, taking the bullshit papers and heading back out.

I pass them to the guard to my right, the tall albino-looking one with freckles and a chip on his shoulder. "Well, well, if it isn't Rain Man."

_If it isn't Skidmarks man . . . There's a purpose for toilet paper, you ugly fuck._

I stare straight ahead and fail to react.

"You think you're gonna actually survive this course?" he asks.

I turn to him. "Thomas has signed the papers. I'm in."

"Yeah, if the head of the MERIT program allows it." He snorts and leads me down the hallway.

A few phone calls later, and I've got all my shit in a box. I carry it to my new dorm and drop it off on a new bed before I'm escorted to the first day of the Life Skills Program. Didn't even have time to shove my shit into my locker and secure it.

A leggy brunette approaches me. "Hi, I'm Ms. Swan. And you are?"

"Fucking ecstatic to be here," I growl.

She smiles, but her eyes do the opposite. "Nice to meet you. You can take a seat here," she says, motioning to the front center spot, since the rest of the seats are full.

"Swell." I snort and take a seat.

She moves to the front of the room, and begins, "I'm so happy to be here today with all of you." Her smile brightens considerably, until she looks at me, then it fades away. She turns around, and my God, I am never giving up this seat.

That's the tightest, perkiest ass I've ever seen, and the curviest legs in existence.

Is there a reason she's dressed like a naughty librarian with the hair twisted up in a loose knot, white blouse, black skirt, and ballet flats.

I glance over at Emmett, and he's got a grin that's stretched from one temple to the other—it's that fucking wide.

She places a big sheet of white paper on the board. When she turns around, she leans over to get a paint brush she has set on the table. She dips it in a glass of water and swirls it around. With that cleavage staring at me briefly, and those lips pursed like that, I swear my jeans just strangled my cock, because it's entirely too fucking tight.

I cross my left ankle over my right knee and lean back in my seat, smirking.

She knows she's flashing the tops of her tits at me, right?

A second later, she's dipping the wet brush in some water.

"Anyone here ever taken any art classes before?" She straightens so she's no longer leaning over.

No one responds.

Why would they?

Who's going to admit to taking some pansy-assed art classes?

"Well, anyone know what will happen if I do this"—she drags a wet blue line across the top, pulling it down to the middle of the paper—"and then go back for another color?" She dips the brush in the water, swirls it again, making me twitch in my pants, and then she has some red on the brush. "If I put this red paint on there and contact the wet streak"—someone snickers and says wet streak, making her scowl, but she continues on—"with this new color, what will happen?"

"It'll bleed," Emmett says, clearing his throat at the end, and scooting away from the fucker seated next to him. Probably in case the dude sucker punches him.

She shows us by crossing the red over the blue, and it makes a big purple blotch in the middle, then drips all over into the other two, feathering and messing up the colors.

"That's right." She smiles at him, goes back to the desk, leans over and picks up another big white paper with a blue streak already painted across it. She hangs that one up next to the one she just painted on.

"What if I let the blue streak dry first, and then I put another color over it?" She grabs some yellow paint on her brush after she's cleaned it once more.

No one says a word.

"_Please_, we're not fucking stupid," I breathe, clicking my tongue and looking away like I'm bored.

"Then enlighten me—please." She turns her big brown eyes on me, and all thoughts head south.

I just glare back, because what the fuck else am I supposed to do? This bitch thinks we're idiots? "When you place a wet medium over another wet one, it doesn't fucking matter if there's a small bit of a dry dam between them. They spread out. Any kid knows this—can't fucking put wet on top of wet without it fucking up the other color."

She gives me a look like I'm testing her patience, tucks a stray hair behind her ear and proves my point. Her hand is steady as a yellow streak is crossed over the dry blue one, and nothing happens, except a big old blue and gold X.

"Very good." She turns back to the class. "This is a metaphor for life. Anyone want to guess how?"

"Because when you get busted, you bleed?" someone teases from the back.

I snort.

"Well, not exactly what I was going for, but I suppose that's true." She sets the brush in the glass of water and inhales, then squares her shoulders. Those curvy hips sway as she rounds the desk, leans up against the edge, and then she stares at me. "What if I'm a famous painter, and I want to sell this first piece? Would anyone buy it?"

"I fucking hope not," I reply, my voice gritty.

"Why?" Her brows pop up.

"Because it sucks ass."

She shrugs. "True, if you're not a fan, maybe it does, but this won't sell because it's ruined. I was impatient, did things out of order and it's no longer a carefully constructed piece. It's sloppy, and it's all my fault."

I smirk. "Well, fuck—so glad to know I'm not paying top dollar for this shit."

She smirks back. "I'm sure you are." She pushes off the desk, stands directly in front of me and points at the yellow one. "What about this one? I followed the rules—I waited until the first stroke was dry before I placed the second one, so the colors are contained. Would I be able to sell that one?"

"God, cram it down our throats, why don't you?" I stare into her eyes, not backing down.

"That's not the purpose of this course." She moves toward the right side of the classroom. "The purpose is to show you that sometimes we do things out of order. Maybe we drop out of high school and get a job, but it won't pay enough because we don't have a higher education, so we wind up needing more money and turn to illegal activities to get it, because maybe we have a family to feed now."

"Fucking A—preach!" Newton hollers from the back.

"And maybe, it's not really your fault. Maybe you didn't realize dropping out was going to be such a big mistake, because high school seemed like a big joke—a waste of time. But now you realize a GED, at least, is required to get somewhere. That your employer cares that you've wasted your time to get educated and get through courses that were probably silly, but you proved you're willing to sacrifice. You can always start over." She heads back over to the board, yanks down both papers, and puts up a fresh, blank one.

Someone yawns in the back of the classroom.

I bark a laugh.

"I want you all to figure out what you want out of this program. What your goals are. What do you wish you could do over? By the end of today's lesson, I want you to come up here, and you don't even have to put your name on it, but write one word—one thing you wish you could redo. Use the paint brush. Figure out if it's easier to write it with a lot of water in the mixture, or just a little. How thick do you want the letters? What color stands out best? Or do you want it more subtle so others don't notice it? Do you use only the tip of the brush"—someone laughs at the word tip, and Newton's in the back, pretending to jack off, but she ignores them— "or do you use the entire piece? What about using your finger instead?" More snickers at the word finger. "And do you let one letter dry before you use another color next to it, so if they touch, their lives don't bleed into each other?"

"What if my life bleeds into yours?" Emmett jibes.

"It's fine. I expect it to, because I care that each of you succeeds. I won't ever give up. If you want to get through this course and earn skills, then no matter if there are obstacles—if you're willing to try—then I am, too." She gives him an affectionate smile, and I swear to fucking Christ, Emmett blushes and looks away.

I huff and drop my head. This is a joke already.

"Let's start off now with introductions. If you don't want to say anything about yourself, you don't have to, but I'd at least like your last name." She tips her head up higher. There are a few grumbles in the room. "Yes, I know I already have an attendance role, but that's not the point. This is so your voice can be heard, because that's what I want in here. I want you to be heard and know I'll always listen to you and your concerns. I value the time you spend here with me and the other L.A. Works instructors." She glances at me, then turns her gaze on four other teachers in the back of the room. "I'll start first. Let me introduce the team." She waves them forward. "There are five areas we focus on from the start—personal relationships, parenting, anger management, drug education and spiritual growth. I'm Ms. Swan, as I've already said, and I'm the coach for personal relationships. It's my goal to help you with better communication, how to listen intently, use reflective listening and how to keep yourself engaged when others around you maybe have different interests or opinions than your own." She points to a blonde woman next to her with a huge pair of tits, strapped into a workout top. "I'll let Hale go next, and once all the instructors have finished, we'll go around the room, starting at the back with Newton." She smiles at him, but it's more of an "I'll tolerate you" grin.

"I'm Ms. Hale," the blonde starts. "If you take my course, you'll be required to join me along with two other fitness instructors for yoga. You don't have to do everything in the class if you're uncomfortable with certain aspects, but I do expect you to participate in the meditation at the end of each session." She stares at Emmett and drops her eyes. "Yoga can be more challenging than you might realize, so I don't want any complaints when you're struggling to hold a pose or do a posture. I'll help of course, but that means at times I might have to touch you."

"_Yeaaaahhhhh_ . . ." Newton drawls, nodding like she just made his day.

Her jaw flexes. "Only appropriately of course, and there will always be guards in the room, monitoring."

Newton's grin fades away, and he scowls at her. "Well, that bites."

"But I don't. I hope you'll join our class." She bows, and then the next instructor talks about drug education.

The last one goes on and on about some bullshit on how being spiritual can be the difference between falling apart once outside the prison walls and either having a nervous breakdown or going back to previous bad habits.

Breaking the law is now called "bad habits" by civilians?

Good Lord. What do they call a good hard fucking? Swapping of fluids in a mutual, pleasant exchange?

Ms. Swan points at Newton.

"Hey—you all know me. Newton." He nods, and then goes mute.

"Thank you." Swan points to the next one.

"I'm Jackson," the next guy says.

It snakes around the room, and no one says anything more than their last name.

When it's my turn, I say, "I'm Rain Man, according to the guards, because I can make it rain money. And I can teach this damn class, so you'll have to forgive me if I fall asleep on you. I don't like repeats, and I never read the same book more than once. Don't need to with my eidetic memory." I smirk.

"Well, good to know, but since your real name is _not_ Rain Man, could please fill us in?"

I pass her my papers she never grabbed at the beginning.

"Cullen," she reads off. She fidgets for a moment, and then motions to the board. "I'll give you all a moment to meet the instructors one-on-one, come up and write your word on the paper, and then we'll split into sessions. I'll be by the door, since my classroom is in the east end."

"I'd like to be in _her_ east end," Newton whispers to himself.

I roll my eyes.

Everyone mingles, but I stay in my seat.

Why did I sign on for this shit? And which class do I want to suffer through first? I don't have kids, so I don't need parenting, and I'll be damned if I do yoga or drug education. I don't need those. Spiritual classes sound about as fun as a root canal without anesthesia, so I drop my head back and groan. Ms. Swan it is.

Fuck. My. Brain. Hurts.

So does my chest.

I drop my head and glance at her over my shoulder. Her eyes dart away the moment I'm looking at her.

Was she checking me out?

My lips twist into a smirk.

Ms. Swan likes a bad-ass?

Well, fuck. Who knew?

I get up, walk to the board, and drop a number fourteen on the paper in green paint, using only my pinky finger.

When I walk over to her, standing all by herself, I make sure no one's looking and no guards can see what I'm about to do. I grab her hand, smear the paint onto her palm in one smooth line, and say, "Bleeding into your life enough, yet?"

She blinks, sucks her lips in and stands a little taller.

Her hand drops away, and she rubs her two palms together. "May I ask why you chose green?"

"Why do _you_ think?" I breathe in her face.

"Green for knowledge?" She leans against the wall. Does she need support, or is she trying to get away from me?

"Keep guessing." I look at her hand.

The guard a few feet away approaches us, but she waves him off. "It's fine, Lionel. We're good here."

I wait, staring at her, and enjoying how uncomfortable she seems around me.

"Green for growth, like vegetation?" She tries again.

I lick my lips and step a little closer. "Why do you think a guy like me is in here, sweetheart? I sure as hell didn't kill anyone, and I'm not the local pedophile, so what landed my ass in here so I could take your riveting classes?"

"M-money?" Her eyes soften.

"Bingo."

She cocks her head at me. "Let me ask you this—if that's true, and you're as smart as you're saying you are, why are you in here for this program? Sure doesn't seem like you want to be a part of it."

I snort, and my chin tips at her with a jerking motion. "Piece of hot ass maybe."

"I don't believe that," she says, her voice shaking at the end. "You know that's never going to happen, and a smart guy would never think that would be the case."

"Reverse psychology, Ms. Swan? Trying to tell me I don't want to be here so I'll do my damnedest to prove you're wrong? Seems beneath you."

"And this course seems beneath you," she blurts, then presses her lips closed.

"It is." I nod and wish to God I had a smoke right about now. She's making me twitch again, and I need something to calm the fuck down. Does she have to smell so good? It's like laying down in a field of flowers or some shit.

"Then why are you here? What does the number fourteen mean? Were you fourteen when you first got caught breaking the law?"

I drop my head back and laugh so loud, the guard is coming at us again.

She stops him again, but this time with a head shake.

"You wish." I let my head fall and stare her in the eye. "It's all tied to money. That's all that matters, and you know that better than anyone. You just taught that goddamn lesson fifteen minutes ago. You don't have money—you don't have shit. And you can't get money the legal way without an education."

"You're clearly educated," she says, searching my face.

"I am." I edge a little closer, just to freak this bitch out. She hasn't backed down yet. I've secretly touched her—though, it's against the rules, and if anybody had seen it, I would have been busted for it. She could've reported me right away, but she didn't.

I've breathed on her, gotten in her smug face, and told her this class is for losers, yet she's still standing here, not budging an inch.

"How did you wind up in this place, then?"

Newton's fat feet clomp over to us. "Hey, Miss Swan, I'm all yours!" He grins and stops in front of her.

"Your fan club's arrived." I step back.

She steps toward me. "One of the things I ask of my class is they respect me enough to tell the truth—if you lie to me, Cullen, we'll have some serious issues." She turns to Newton, her mouth open—ready to start speaking to him, then turns back to me, and adds, "And I don't play games. I expect you to refrain as well. Be straight with me, and I promise you'll get something out of this course."

"Damn—no one talks to us like that," Newton tells her.

She grabs his bicep and squeezes it, then lets go right away. "I'm sure they don't."

And they sure as fuck don't touch us like that.

All at once, I'm pissed she's touched him.

I touched her, but she didn't touch me back.

She's smiling at him, comfortable even, as she talks to him about his stupid-ass word he wrote on the big white paper of lunacy—_hope_.

"I lost hope a long time ago," Newton begins his sob story.

Oh Jesus.

I crash my shoulder into the wall.

"Tell me about what happened?" Her voice goes all soft and flowery like her scent.

My hands bunch into fists, and I stretch my neck.

"I was sick of being in foster homes." He keeps going.

She pats his arm next, and fuck, I'm ready to yell in her face for leading a fucker on like that. Newton's not immune to her.

Hell, most of us in here don't receive many visitors, and she's pretty—_beautiful_ even.

So why does she think it's okay to sound like that and touch him that way?

I glance over at the guard, and he looks completely unconcerned.

How is this shit safe for her?

If any of these fuckers see her tits the way I did when my ass was in my seat, and she touches them like that . . . ?

Prison riots will look like a day at a county fair.

"McCarty, are you joining us?" she asks him a moment later.

"Nah, I just wanted to say I'll try your course next. I need to deal with my anger issues." He smirks.

Fucking liar. He saw blonde and tits, and he couldn't even think about another class here.

"You need anger management?" Swan chuckles.

"Yeah—what of it?" Emmett pretends to scowl at her.

She reaches out, grabs his wrist, and swings his arm for a moment, and I'm fucking seeing red. Is she gonna touch every dick in this room but me?

"I know you'll love Hale's class. She's a tough teacher sometimes when she's stretching you and pushing your body to the limit, but it's worth it. You'll be surprised what a good workout it is and how much clearer your head will be afterward." She gives him a smile of approval.

She points toward Rose. "Go—your teacher's waiting." She waves and smiles at him.

I drop back to the wall where I was a moment before.

She pivots in my direction—and I swear to fucking God, I can hear a rusty hinge in her ankle and neck when she twists toward me, giving me an incredulous look. "Problem?"

"Yeah. You're not supposed to do that."

"Do what? Get to know the students? Treat them like human beings?" Her eyes narrow, and her pupils dilate.

"Yeah, that wasn't about being treated like humans—it was a little too 'friendly.'"

Newton nods in agreement, even though he lacks a neck. He's got a boulder for a head, with dark spiky hair that sits on top of it, while his rock-head is planted on his monstrous shoulders.

"Okay, what do you suggest?" Her hands fly to her hips, and she cuts us both a look in turn.

"Let a fucker have his space, so he can breathe—ya know," I say.

"Funny—I wasn't the one encroaching on your space, and you didn't seem to want me to back away." She drops her hands when two more students join us. She ignores Newton and me, and "gets to know them," too—with her fucking body.

Fuck. Once more, her hands are all over them. Gentle pats to the back. A squeeze of a hand.

She even nudges one of them.

I growl at the back of my throat, because apparently, this bitch has a death wish. Either that or she's a stripper, here to get paid.

I have no idea which, but since I don't have a pole for her or cash on hand, it's obviously going to fall to me to protect her since she has no idea what self-preservation means in a place like this.

"That's what my instructor said!" She bellows out a laugh, smacks Masters on the back.

When no one else seems to be heading our way, and everyone's dispersed, we're escorted to her small, but colorful classroom, by Lionel—the guard she kept dismissing.

She has art on the walls.

What the fuck gives?

"Yo, Miss Swan—aren't we here to learn how to communicate, not become the next Picasso?" Newton snickers.

She laughs and guides him to a seat. Once more, her hand is on his bicep.

He's big—as massive as Emmett—built like a linebacker. How is she not afraid of him, and why can't she leave him the fuck alone? It's obvious he has a hard-on with her initials inked on it.

"Art might become a part of what we do, since it's a part of me, but I promise I won't make you paint your feelings." She shrinks away, pulling a face, scrunching her brows together and her palms are up as if she's being attacked by something scary.

Newton laughs harder. "Yeah, okay—we believe you."

Fuck, I'm gonna be in this classroom four days a week with this imbecile, and I don't even know these other two fuckwits.

"Jackson, why don't you start us off," she says, sliding her ass against her desk and leaning on it again. "Tell us what you struggle with when you deal with personal relationships."

"I dunno," he mumbles. He drops his curly dark head and we can no longer see his dark, beady eyes or square jawline.

"I can't help tailor this class to your needs if I don't know what your needs _are_. Or, if you don't want to help me out, I'll just read straight from the manual."

His eyes pop up to her face. "The fuck . . . ?" Jackson slaps his palms on his desk.

She picks up a book on her desk and begins reading it out loud.

"All right, all right—fuck! I can't seem to tell my girlfriend when she does something right. All I do is tell her I want to fuck her, and she's sick of it." He groans.

I roll my head with my eyes this time. Is he serious? God! I'd like to beat some sense into his skull.

"Are you averse to doing some role playing at our next class? You could write down the things you like about her, and I'll read some lines for her—what I think she might say. You can respond how you usually do. I'll give you some tips, and then we'll see how it goes." Her face lights up.

Is she getting off on his humiliation? Bitch is a sadist.

"Miss Swan, what do I do when my mom keeps writing me, and she tells me how much I've hurt her? I don't know what to say. So I just ignore it and don't answer, but then she gets more upset." Masters sits up straight.

He's the half Asian-looking guy, but he's so pale he looks like he's been locked up for years, even though he's probably younger than I am. Maybe twenty-four, which means I've got five years on him.

He's thinner than most of the guys in here, but he's taller, too. Probably close to six-foot-seven.

"That's a tough one, but I can definitely talk you through it. How about we compose a letter together? Next class, bring her most recent letter with you." He draws his head back and his eyes narrow. She waves her hands in the air. "No, no, I'm not asking you to share it with me or the class. All you'll need to do is tell me how the letter makes you feel as you read it. I'll help you pen some thoughts, and we'll make sure it reflects you accurately, without making you feel too vulnerable."

I make a grating sound at the back of my throat. "Isn't that the whole fucking point? Bringing us to our lowest—then kicking the shit out of us so we're nothing more than the dirt on your shoe you dragged into this place?"

Her face fixes in place with dogged determination. "That may be the point of prison guards, or maybe even other official figures you come in contact with, but I assure you, my objective isn't to torture or decimate your ego."

"Ego's a bad thing to you and your types." I stand up and approach her.

Lionel is on edge, inching his way toward us, his eyes on me.

As usual, she tells him she can handle it. She realizes having guards in the classroom is a good thing, right?

"Ego is absolutely essential if you're in this place." She extends her hand to me. "I would never take that from you, and it's not like I could, even if I wanted to."

"I'm not your friend—I'm not shaking that." I glower at her hand.

I prowl after her anyway—makes no goddamn sense, but I can't seem to stop myself.

Newton rockets out of his seat. "Hey, man, back off."

"No." I grab her hand, squeeze it into a fist and set it on my chest. "If she can't handle me standing up to her, putting her hand on me so she can beat the shit out of me, then she doesn't deserve to be at the head of this classroom."

Instead of pushing against my chest like I expect her to do, she flattens her palm, and her eyes fill with sadness. "You're absolutely right, Rain Man. You make it rain money, and I do what I do best—listen. So talk to me. What can I do to help you with your personal relationships?" Her eyes are a soft, honeyed, light brown now as she gazes at me.

I drop my shoulders and exhale—my breath making the loose tendrils around her face blow back. "Nothing—I don't have relationships, so there's nothing to do with me."

Her hand falls from me as if it's a dead weight.

"Well, that's not true—now is it?" She shifts her weight toward Newton. "You have a friend right here, don't you? He just helped you."

I walk back over to my seat and plop down in it, then grunt my affirmation.

"We talk fine, Miss Swan. We don't need help—we're good." Newton goes back to his seat, too.

"Friends are scarier than family sometimes, aren't they?" She looks at Masters. "Because at least with family, we know they're stuck with us no matter what. A friend can turn their back on you, decide you're not worth it, and that can be scary as hell."

And that's when I get up and leave this fucking bitch behind. I don't need friends—I don't need _her_.

**A/N:**

**For some reason I had no idea that most prisons in the United States have a smoking ban. California is one of them with a smoke-free environment. Yeah—I think you can guess what kind of problems that's caused them. Some people are buying cigarettes from people who sneak them in—at as much as $80 per cigarette. In some cases more than that.**

**I never thought I'd support smoking with anyone, but in this case, I actually do feel for them. If it helps to calm them down in a stressful environment like this, I kind of wonder if it's worth it.**

**I have to apologize for already making some mistakes in the first 2 chapters. I've been informed by my editor that first names are never used in prison, not even between staff. They have their first initial on name tags, but everyone uses last names, so I've gone back and changed that in the first 2 chapters. Woops! Although, you will see Edward using Emmett's first name since they knew each other before they were incarcerated.**

**I'll also claim some artistic license. I was also told that it's a huge no-no for staff to touch inmates. I promise, there's a reason for it in this chapter, and it'll be dealt with accordingly, so I'm not trying to make a mockery of what goes on in the prison system. In addition, I've also been informed showing cleavage also is not permitted. Yes, that makes sense, but if you've got big breasts like I do, even when you dress modestly, when you lean over to get something, sometimes it creates cleavage at the top of the chest that was covered up before. Hope that makes sense as to why Edward was the only one really seeing it. He was seated right in front of her, and it happened quickly. Not to mention, leaning like that made her arms smash her chest together in the process as well.**

**Also, just wanted to make you all aware if you hadn't already heard—my full length novel version of **_**Slick as Ides**_ **is now up on Amazon. The link is in my profile if you want to check it out. If you've read the fan fic version and want a free copy with no strings attached just send me an email and tell me if you want it in epub or mobi. My email address is in my profile as well. I share this for 2 reasons. To let you know that I'd love to share this story with all of you that want it, and also to let you know that's why I missed some updates on this story. I was crazy busy, preparing to publish. ;D**

**Chanse**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

I stand outside my boss, the assistant warden's office, I've been summoned to.

Nerves shoot through my body, making my arms and legs tense. My fingers tremble.

What did I do—was it something I said? Does it have something to do with Cullen leaving class yesterday? Did he report me for something?

One of the guards who told me I had to go talk to the assistant warden stands with me.

Fuck. Are they going to fire me already?

I've barely started.

The door opens, and I step inside.

The assistant warden, Holden, finishes up some paperwork on his desk, then looks at me. "I've received a report that you're touching inmates."

"I _what_?" I wander over to the chair in front of his desk and drop into it.

He gives me a look like I better not bullshit him.

"I shook hands. Am I not allowed to be friendly and build a rapport with them? I want them to trust me." My head aches.

"You took the training courses. No touching at all. None. No exceptions. I'm being lenient by giving you this one warning. If it happens again, then you're done here." He cocks his head. "It's for your safety. We do it to protect our staff and the inmates. I think you're being too careless and trusting that these men won't hurt you."

"Why would they? I'm not provoking them into anything. I was only showing them some kindness," I explain.

"You can be kind without touch. Just tell yourself they're diseased, and then you'll remember to keep your distance."

"Diseased?" I shake my head and my brow furrows. "I'm sorry, but that won't work for me. I don't want to be afraid or cower away from them. They're people who made some poor choices, and they're paying for it. It's not my job to condemn them for it. How would that help them? I want them to see they're worth something, and they can rebuild their lives."

He smiles and says with a patronizing tone, "You know, it's nice to have an optimist in our ranks, but watch it, okay? Being vulnerable and naive isn't a good idea in this environment. The guards will keep you safe, but still . . . This job can really take a toll on you if you get your hopes up too high. Never want their freedom or redemption more than they do, or you'll be gutted inside."

I nod, get up and head to the door. "It won't happen again."

"I hope not. I like that you have a positive outlook, and the men can use more of that in their life." He smiles warmly.

"Oh, and, Mr. Holden? I wanted to ask permission to use my phone in class as a prop. It'll be turned off. I want to do some communications role play, and I think if it feels more realistic to them they might take it more seriously. I also want to use the timer on it down the road."

"Not possible. Cell phones are contraband. You can use the phone on the wall in the room. Bring in a separate timer." He waves me on.

I leave his office, and I'm tenser than ever.

Jesus, I've already screwed up and been warned to get my ass in gear.

But class went so well yesterday. Well, most of it did. The class opened up to me after Cullen left—but this is class two. It's been twenty-four hours, and I'm not sure if Cullen will be around or not. And for some reason I want him there, even if he doesn't want to join us.

What the hell is wrong with me? Is Mr. Holden right? Am I putting too much pressure on the hopes I can help them all to find some measure of peace and happiness?

I exhale with a gust of hot wind, step inside my classroom, followed by a guard, and there are my four students, sitting scattered around the room.

Lionel is already inside, monitoring them.

Something inside me smiles, yet also shrinks away. _He's here! Cullen came!_

Fuck—he's _here_.

I walk confidently to the front of the room, nod at Newton, grinning at me from the back of the room, and welcome them all, taking the time to thank them for returning.

Cullen sits in the front, like last time, looking bored as hell, his green eyes a little red-rimmed. Did he lose sleep last night?

"What I thought we could do today is break into groups. I'll start with Jackson so I can help him with his girlfriend. I'll get him started on a letter for her, and then I'll move to each of you and find out what you're working on. You can brainstorm together, figure out which relationship in your life you would like to start with first, and if you're uncomfortable sharing this sensitive information with your group, then you can wait and talk to me directly instead."

No one moves. I head over to Jackson and duck my head a little when I can feel Cullen's stare burning into my back as I retreat away from him.

I step in front of Jackson, and still no one moves.

"Is there a problem?" I ask them.

"Ms. Swan, no offense, but I'm not a pussy—I'm not sharing this private shit with these guys," Newton says. "Groups? Nah. Count me out."

"Okay, let's try something else then." I leave Jackson's desk, go to mine at the front, and say, "These are your journals, or a way to take notes on whatever you think is important or anything you want to remember. For the next few minutes while I get Jackson started, I want you to brain storm on your own. Write down what hasn't been working for you with your most important relationship, and then write down what _is_ going well. Maybe make a note of one of the best conversations you've had with that person, and why it felt good to both of you. We'll see if we can find some patterns to work on." I smile at each of them in turn, all except Cullen. I avoid his piercing gaze—those green eyes today are unnerving for some inexplicable reason.

Along with that broad chest and muscular shoulders. God, that white tee shirt on him isn't that tight, but I can see every ridge of his hardened muscles outlined beneath.

I pass out their books, saving Cullen for last, even though it would've made more sense for me to hand out his first since he's directly in front of my desk. But for some reason I want them busy, not watching anytime I have any kind of interaction with him. He's like a ticking time bomb, and he's waiting for me to get close enough before he goes off.

When I set his composition book on his desk, keeping as far away from him as possible, his cool breath wafts up my arm. "Skittish little thing today, aren't we, Ms. Swan?"

I blink twice, avoid looking at him and all but run over to Jackson.

There's a quiet snicker, and I'm not sure if it's Cullen or Newton.

I choose to believe it's Cullen. Newton's been entirely harmless so far, and he seems to want to participate, so I let it go.

Cullen's not going to derail me.

"Let's see what we can do." I grab a seat off to the side of the room, smile at Lionel and scoot close enough I can see Jackson's writing.

"I can't help it—she's hot," he says, wiping his hands down his face.

Instead of writing any actual words, he's drawn a pornographic image of him having sex with her on top of a park table.

Or is that here at the prison?

I swallow and flip it over, not wanting to know.

"I'm sure she's lovely, but she's unhappy with how you're talking to her, right?"

He nods, his dark, squinty eyes filled with dread. Is it that scary?

I smile, and his eyes soften.

"Help me," he whispers, leaning toward me.

"Okay, we can work on how you address her first. What do you call her when you speak to her?"

"Sexy snatch."

I bark a laugh, trying to smother it with my hand, but it's too late. "Is she okay with that?"

He smiles, amused at my reaction. "If I'm about to nail her, then, yeah."

"But if you're calling her on the phone, and she picks up the call, when you say that, what happens?"

"It gets all kinds of fucked up. She almost yells at me. I think she's just horny as fuck and wants to get laid, too, so I tell her I miss her tight cunt." He shrugs.

"Oh dear . . ." I pat his desk in front of me, careful to avoid his hand and touching him.

Someone shifts in their seat nearby. "What's her name? Do you mind sharing it?"

"Cathy." His face lights up. "She's sexy as fuck."

"Yeah, you mentioned that." I pat his desk once more.

Another shift in a student's seat nearby. "Can you try this—say _I'm_ Cathy, I've picked up the phone, I've said hello. How about you say to her, 'Cathy, I really miss you. Are you doing okay?'"

He snorts. "_What_?"

"Try it. I'll pretend to be Cathy. Use your words in your own way, but use her name, and only her name, or something softer like sweetheart, or honey, but don't say it in a suggestive way. She needs to know you care." I move my hand to my lap, and he slumps in his seat. "Okay, give me a second." I take a deep breath, head over to the wall and grab the cordless phone. I walk back to him, put the phone to my ear and smile at him. "Hello? Jackson, is that you?"

He exhales and sounds all winded and nervous as hell. "Yeah—Cath, it's me. Do you miss me at all? You're not fucking around on me behind my back, are you?"

I can see Cullen out of the corner of my eye. He's at his desk, laughing, his head down, resting between his arms.

"That's a good start, but let me give you a tip—women want to feel trusted. It makes them feel safe. So if you ask her something like that right away, it makes it sound like you already believe she's being unfaithful."

"I do."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Has she given you a reason to think that?"

He stares at me, eyes wide, mouth popped open. "I'm in here, and she's out there. I'm a horny fucker, and she's a slutty piece of hot-ass. That's why I want her. Of course she's fucking around."

I shake my head. "Then why don't you start with something like this—'Hi, Cathy,'" I sigh, "'I've got a problem. I miss you a lot, and I'm worried you won't wait for me—that you'll find someone else while I'm in here. Am I crazy for thinking this?'" I set the phone down on the table in front of him.

He chuckles. "Do you think that shit would actually work?"

I nod. "Try it. I'll be her. Say what's in your heart without getting all worked up and believing the worst." He opens his mouth to protest, but I hold my hand up to stop him. "Even if people in the past let you down repeatedly, you can't think about that. If she's important to you, this time you have to trust she won't be like that. Trust she cares about you, too."

He gulps, eyes wider than before, freaked out a little bit.

I put the phone back to my ear. "Hey, Jackson. I'm glad you called."

"Me, too, Cathy. I miss you so bad—were you going to visit me this weekend?"

I give him the thumbs up and a big toothy grin.

"Yeah—I'll be there." I nod, to keep him going.

"Shit, I . . . I'm freaking out, babe. You're so sexy, and I think about you a lot, and I know other guys want a piece of you. Are you . . . Are you still waiting for me? Or is it too late?"

I slap the phone down on the table. "Perfect!" I want to give him a high five but refrain.

"I sounded like a complete fucking tool," he mutters, dropping his head.

"You sounded like a man willing to be a little vulnerable for a moment to show the woman he cares about he'll treat her with respect. That's all any woman could ask for, whether the guy's locked up or not."

I feel it. Those green eyes are back on me, studying me.

I shift toward Newton.

"Wonderful. Write down whatever you think will help you remember what we just did and said, and then if you want, at the end of class I'll look over it, okay?" I tell Jackson. I pick up the phone and give him one last smile.

He smiles back, but it's a little wary.

I head over to Masters next. "Did you bring your last letter from your mom?" I ask him.

"No. I got a new one yesterday, later in the day, and it was so fucking stupid, I decided it's not worth dealing with. I'd rather talk about my girlfriend, too. I've got a similar problem to Jackson's."

I help him out for the next few minutes, but he prefers to write notes in his notebook instead so no one else is listening in.

When I think I understand what his problem is, then I'm able to help him, and he seems satisfied.

I put the phone back on the wall mounted cradle, make my way around the room, and right before I get to Cullen, I notice our class time is almost over.

His eyes continue to follow me wherever I go, and I don't think he wrote a damned thing down.

Fine. It's up to him if he participates or not.

I choose to ignore the way there are needles jabbing into my stomach lining and making me want to almost puke at the way he makes me react to him.

I'm trained for this, goddammit. I can handle a surly dude dressed in standard jeans and white tee shirt.

"It seems we have a recurring theme today—how to talk to women. Is that a correct assumption by me?" I ask, shaking off the burning feel of Cullen's eyes on me.

"Psssht!" Cullen slaps his hands on his desk and his eyes narrow at me, but he's grinning. It's a menacing kind of smirk, but I disregard it.

"Women make no sense—they're fucking nuts," Newton says, leaning toward me.

"I agree—they make me nuts, too." I grin.

"What the fuuu-uuuck?" Jackson clicks his teeth at the end, his eyes wide and stretching his neck up like I'm far away and he's trying to get a better look at this strange mythical creature in front of him.

"Yeah—they're hard to figure out. I don't get them either. Most of the time it's because I say what I think. I don't get all flowery and try to hide my meaning. One of the reasons men are easy to talk to is that unless I bring up feelings, they're happy to discuss almost anything, and usually with nothing but honesty. Women hide behind their words, because they know a man doesn't want to hear about feelings. It makes them uncomfortable, but she's brimming over with them." I take a deep breath.

Newton beams at me, comfortably leaning back in his chair, tipping it back even.

I could tell him to keep all the legs on the ground, but I want them to enjoy being here and feel content.

So, to join him, I hop up to sit on my desk. "Guess what? She doesn't really like talking about her feelings either. It's too scary, but she worries if she doesn't, you might not ever tell her how you feel about her. So she goes a little nuts because she knows it might just frighten you off."

"It does," Masters says under his breath.

I smile and incline my head at him. "What's the scariest thing that can happen if your girlfriend asks you directly what you think about her, and you honestly tell her?"

He huffs. "It's a fucking trap! Like when they ask you if their skirt makes their hips look too wide, or if their tits are too small. What am I supposed to fucking say to that shit?"

"Don't dodge it. But you could always do a switch." I wave my hand at him. "Go ahead, we're going to practice, but I'll be you, so you ask me the most dreaded question about feelings you can think of."

Masters sighs, then groans like this is torture. He clears his throat, then goes into a whiny high pitched breath. "Do you want to spend the night, because I really want to snuggle with you."

"That's not feelings, Masters. Try again. A direct question." I point at him, pretending to scold him like a parent would.

"But I wanna know what to say when a bitch says that stupid-ass shit to me." His left brow quirks up.

"What do you _want_ to say to her when she says that?" I quirk a brow back, mirroring him and purse my lips as well.

"Hell no, I don't want to cuddle. That's what your fucking blankets and pillows are for." He shakes his head at me, then huffs, addressing me this time, "It hurts my chest and arms when I have to lay there like I'm a damn statue, and when I want to hold her from behind, then all I can think about is ramming it up her ass. And she's not into that. What am I supposed to do about that?"

"Okay." I pause, slip off the desk and pace. "You can tell her that information in a way that won't hurt her feelings. Try this trick—anytime something pisses you off, and you're flustered and don't know what to say, ask a question instead that leads her to that point. So, say she asks you to spend the night and cuddle, ask her a question like, 'Will you be able to sleep okay like that? I don't want you to be tired for work tomorrow, and I know my chest is kind of hard. I don't want you to get a crick in your neck and be uncomfortable.'"

His eyes get that "Aha!" look in them. "Daaaayum!" Masters whispers.

"You turn it into something about her—your concern for her."

"Lying? Tsk," Cullen says, shaking his head at me.

"Not lying. If you slept with her, and she's your girl, then it means you care about her, right? And if that's the case, then you find a way to state your concerns that revolves around her. You think men have egos? Well, women are worse. They want to know you worship them. That you really do think about their well-being. You could even ask her how she normally sleeps, and how she's most comfortable at night, then you make suggestions so it works for both of you. I had a guy share with me once that he would tell his girlfriend that she could lay in his arms or on his chest while he read for twenty minutes, but after that, he needed to sleep, too—and though he loved having her close by like that, it wasn't conducive to him sleeping. It's a way to open communications and make sure each person gets what they need. If you absolutely don't want to cuddle, then maybe you talk for a few minutes before you leave, and you talk about something that's important to her so she doesn't feel like you bailed on her." I gaze at each of them in turn, again, with the exception of Cullen. "Women need about twenty minutes after sex to come down off that high. If you leave abruptly or fall asleep, it confirms to her it didn't mean anything to you, even though it might've been a huge deal to her to make love with you. Twenty minutes—that's all she needs, even if it's just talking."

"This sounds like it's too good to be true—don't bullshit me," Masters says, staring at me like he means it, and I'll lose my credibility with him if I'm exaggerating.

"When you first started seeing the woman you're with now, didn't you take the time to listen to her?" I hold out my hands.

"Listen to her moan, yeah," Jackson says. "I'm telling you, she's fucking hot and loud as hell! Wakes the neighbors."

"I get it—she's beautiful and vocal—that's wonderful. I'm so glad you're so into her, but I'm sure you did more than tell her how sexy she was to get her interested in you. Women want to be heard, so if you do that, the snuggling might not be such a big issue."

I try to remember what actually got us on this topic, but with Cullen's intense unrelenting eyes on me, I can't seem to remember what it was.

Newton claps once, startling me. "Hey, it's time to go."

He stands up.

I wave at him with a grin.

"I hope to see you all tomorrow. Leave your notebooks here, and I'll take a look at what you wrote. Unless of course you don't want me to, then just tell me before you leave, and I'll respect your privacy." I walk toward the door to see them out.

One by one they exit, Cullen lagging behind.

Before he goes, I finally look him in the eyes. "Did you get anything out of today's lesson?"

"Oh, yeah—I got fucking plenty, Miss Swan. Women, at least _some_ women, don't give a shit about anything other than themselves, and they can't take it when a man knows what he wants, can't have it, but takes it anyway."

"I thought you weren't a rapist," I breathe the words, but barely.

"I thought so, too." He looks me up and down, and a shiver of I-don't-know-what-the-hell-it-is, roams straight down my core, and makes my pussy throb. "I'm not sure anymore."

He exits out the door, and I barely drag myself around the room after he's gone, to collect their notebooks.

When I get to his, I stack it on the bottom. I'm not sure I want to know what's in his head or in his book.

.

.

.

I show up at the KMW gym, in hopes Warren won't give me crap for being here on a night I normally take off.

I'm still sore from the last time he made me fend off ten guys.

But tonight, I need to blow off some steam.

Rain Man isn't raining money anymore—he's placing a black cloud of pissiness over me, making my head about ready to explode.

"Bella?" Warren lopes over to me. "You missed me already?"

I shove his arm. "Nope, and it's Isabella—you know this." I huff. "Need to kick some serious ass tonight—you up for it?" I pull my gear out of my bag. He hands me a mouth guard.

"Hell, yeah. I'll spar with you, but no chest pad. You can use the helmet and shin guards, but that's it."

I nod and grin. "Sounds perfect."

I should've gone for a run, but smacking him silly is just too good to pass up.

"Work's ugly already?" He waves me onto the floor once I've geared up, and his previous partner moves to the sidelines, grabs a Gatorade and takes a seat as he catches his breath.

Warren looks like he's fresh off a soothing back massage.

"Work is dandy—I'm not here to chat, I'm here to get in shape."

"Your ass looks great to me." He pretends to lean to the side and check it out.

"Uh, yeah, it's all Spanx you're seeing. Flab city," I tease.

"Then, yeah, I'll kick your ass, and that flab, too." He circles me, but I keep my face to him at all times.

He's not to be trusted.

Before I know what I'm doing, my fists are curled up against the palms of my fingerless gloves, and they're flying at his face until I get him into a position where I can knee the crap out of his ribs.

All I can think about is the one sentence I saw in Cullen's notebook—_Sitting on the desk? Might want to rethink the length of your skirt._

That was all he got out of today's lesson?

A good view up my skirt?

My skirt was code—past my knees, so he's lying.

Besides, I was crossing my legs, dammit!

Christ, I don't know which I hate more—the way his eyes drill into me or the way he speaks to me like I'm nothing at all.

"Ahhhhhhhaaaagh!" I claw at Warren's neck, yank his chest down into my knee, and the jerk actually laughs.

"God, you're on fire. C'mon, girlie! Hit me already! Enough with this frantic shit. Use some real moves!" Warren pushes me away.

I prowl after him, and he asks, "Want more? Say the word—you need more practice with gangs. I've got ten guys waiting to get on this shit."

I nod. "Bring it!"

They trickle in two at a time, and I'm seething and so frustrated, all I can do is grunt, shove my elbows in their necks, jam my fists up under their chins, knocking off padded helmets and of course kneeing the hell out of their sides.

"Don't think—you're taking too long. Instinct, Isabella—go for the groin—go for their weak spot. The back of the neck. It's vulnerable," Warren coaches me.

My leg flings out, and I contact the side of a really athletic guy's shoulder. He laughs, until I manage to hook it behind his neck—the spot Warren just went on about—and I yank his ass down to the ground.

He snarls at me, making this high pitched, angry sound.

I jump over his head, ram my shoulder into the guy behind him, hugging him, then knocking him into the wall.

My fists pummel his gut and kidneys, until he elbows me in the back.

I drop, roll away, and sweep his left leg out.

He drops, but makes sure to land on me, his knee jamming straight into the side of my waist.

Fuck! The sting rips up my back, and I hope he didn't bruise any ribs. I need to be able to breathe and move around the classroom without wincing.

My elbow flies out, knocking him in the temple, and he rolls away—but before I can get back on my feet, Warren's got me by the head, flipping me over.

He gets on top of me, hammers me in between the shoulder blades, and I finally cry out for him to stop when he does it several times in a row, in rapid succession.

"C'mon!" I holler.

He lets go and stands up. I flop over to my back and tear off my helmet.

"What the hell, Swan? You're tougher than that. Quitting already?" Warren's hands settle on his hips as he looms over me.

"I need to fucking walk tomorrow!"

"And I need you to take this seriously. Walking won't matter much if they jump you and jam a pen in your side, puncturing a vital organ, right?" He stands right over me, practically standing on top of me—fuming, with sweat dripping onto the mat below him.

"Fine!" I reach out, and he gives me a hand up. "I can keep going."

He smacks the side of my helmet the second I have it back on. "No yelling or screaming. I don't care if you're in pain. If you're not in pain, you're not doing it right."

He says go, and I fake a lunge, making him lean toward me to catch me in a hug. But instead, my leg shoots out in a blast of power, sending him flying back two feet, onto his backside.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Warren cheers. He points at me. "Ten guys. Let's do it again."

"Yeah—'kay." I nod, sniffing, trying to breathe through my nose. My throat's on fire. I'm so thirsty, but I'm not going to stop for thirst.

Adrenaline in the veins means I fight.

My body will know I don't go into flight mode—I go into fight mode when I've got this much in my system.

It'll be automatic, and if Cullen thinks he can scare me, then he doesn't know what I'm made of.

**A/N:**

**I know it's been a while. I've been crazy busy preparing to publish **_**Knots**_ **since it's coming out October 18th, and I've been marketing like mad.**

**Many thanks to my beta and adviser, Love M Go Blue. She does a great job!**

**Also, some people have asked why they're dressed in jeans and white tees. That's the standard dress for the general inmate population. The orange and tan jumpsuits are only for particular inmates.**

**Thanks so much! I won't be able to update next week. I'll be out of town, so plan in 2 weeks…**

**Chanse**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

I repeatedly replay our final conversation after yesterday's class was over and stare at my notebook, rubbing my jaw.

"Did you get anything out of today's lesson?" she'd asked.

Like an idiot, I'd gone off on her, ranting about how some women didn't care and were selfish bitches—that they couldn't stand being around a man that knew what he wanted, and even if he couldn't have it, had the balls to take it anyway.

I was referring to her and my past—pissed at how I can't seem to stop fixating on her and how I'd do damn near anything to have her but am helpless to do shit about it.

My eyes close, and I groan at the memory of what she'd said in response—"I thought you weren't a rapist."

Jesus fucking Christ—she thinks I'm a rapist?

My heart rate spikes, because dammit—I was stupid enough and in such utter shock, I almost said I was, though I've never done anything even remotely close to forcing myself on a woman. I would never do that.

But like an imbecile, I kept going . . . "I thought so, too." Why was I antagonizing her, and why the hell did I say that? My fists bunch.

Even worse than what I said was what I did directly after—I raked my eyes over her body, like a complete dick. "I'm not sure anymore," was my final response, and then I left before I wound up kissing her and getting my ass thrown in lockdown because of it.

God, she makes me crazy. I can't even think straight after inhaling her potent, sensual scent.

I stare at my notebook journal once more—she passed it to me the second I was in the door and then _she_ walked away.

A few moments later, I sit down in my seat and open it, wondering why she was in such a rush to give it to me.

My eyes go wide. Whatever the hell happened to her during her formative years to fuck her up wasn't an insignificant thing—because no sane person would have written what she did . . .

_What does rape of a woman mean to you?_

Fuck.

I stare at her from my seat, but she ignores me like she did yesterday.

I scrawl a quick answer: _You really expect me to respond to this horseshit?_

I pause and rethink this.

She'll show this to the assistant warden, and they'll use any answer against me.

I'm not that stupid.

I take the paper out of my journal I just wrote my reply on, ball it up and toss it in her bag a few feet away she had set next to her desk .

She drones on and on about reflective listening, and all I can do is think about how sexy she is, how she she invades my every waking thought anymore and how she's my own personal demon here to taunt me.

She glances at me for a second. Is she checking to see if I'm listening?

I don't give a fuck about how to ask questions to make sure the person knows I heard them correctly. I give a fuck about how I can get her out of my head.

It sounds to me like hearing aids might a good idea for these fuckers if they have to repeat everything in a question.

Listen to what the fuck someone's saying—that's all it requires.

She walks past me, and I ignore the hard-on I've got, all due to the way she smells like some sensual fucking fruit—something red and exotic like pomegranates or some shit. A little flowery, too.

I take a whiff, just a small one, but she's oblivious. Shocking—she doesn't even think about the fact she's constantly leaning over and making me imagine her flashing her tits at me. Or that when she sits on the desk, right the fuck in front of me, I'm visualizing seeing straight up that tight dark skirt, and finding white cotton panties there.

Virginal.

Fuck me.

_White_.

Who the fuck wears white panties under a black pencil skirt?

Why can't I stop thinking about what she'd look like without that white blouse and black skirt?

Psychotic teachers with tits I want to lick—how am I supposed to ignore that?

My eyes follow her, because fuck if that shit pisses her off.

She can't take it.

Her spine goes all rigid, and she loses her thoughts when I refuse to back off.

I don't even have to say a thing. It's all about taking the momentum from her.

"Doesn't that shit get old? Asking questions all the time?" Newton asks.

She turns to him, sets her hip against his desk, and I bite back a growl.

He's a grown ass man—he doesn't need her that close. She's not his mother-figure. She's a teacher. Doesn't she know she's messing with the wrong guys?

They don't like being teased.

She stares down at him, and I stare at her ass.

I've got a much better view.

"It _can_ get old, yes—but it also buys me time to think about what I really want to say. If you've got a woman who talks a mile-a-minute, then this gives you an in—a way you can break in because it forces her to pause, repeat what she said in another way, and then you've got a moment to reformulate what you want to say to her. So, instead of saying, 'I want to take you to bed, you're so hot'"—I growl even louder and fight off the urge to adjust myself, and all because she's talking about fucking as casually as you please, as if she's comfortable with her own body in that way—"you have a moment to compose yourself, and maybe instead you say something nice, like, 'I wish you were here. I love touching you.'" She smiles at Mike. "She can interpret that mean to whatever she wants, and you know what you really meant was that you want to be intimate with her."

Someone snickers at the word intimate, and when her arm swings back, I see a nasty bruise on the back of her elbow. What the hell is this shit?

I stand up, pushing my desk out of the way with a forceful shove.

"Whoa!" She turns to me, eyes wide and filled with fire. "What's wrong here?"

I cross the room in three quick strides to get to her, and Lionel's coming at me.

Before he reaches me, I point at the mark on her skin. "What. Is. This?"

Her face goes pale. "It's nothing." She tells Lionel it's fine right afterward and that she doesn't need him to intervene.

My fingers flex. I want to touch it—examine it closer. "It's. Not. Nothing. What is it?"

"A grueling workout . . . _Problem_?" Her eyes harden.

"How did you get it?" I lean toward her.

"You wanna practice your communication with me right now, Cullen?" She crosses her arms over her chest. "Let's start with me first. I say it's nothing, and you ask me a question without sounding annoyed. Ready?"

"I'm always ready," I reply, stepping even closer. She's gonna look in my eyes, and she's gonna smell me since I have to keep inhaling her scent that makes me crazy. Even her fucking notebooks smell like her.

"It's nothing, Cullen," she begins.

"What does nothing mean to you, as a woman?" I say, reminding her subtly of the question she posed to me about rape in my composition notebook. This shit is not _nothing_. My eyes roam over her arm, and I'm sure I look pissed as I keep staring at that big as fuck, splotchy bruise. And of course she tightens her grip around her torso, making her tits lift and squeeze together. She's never heard of a hint of cleavage, or men that have been stuck inside the joint before?

"Well, it means many things. It certainly isn't code for 'I'm fine,' which I'm sure you've learned by now—when a woman says that, it means she is anything _but_ fine." She narrows her eyes slightly, and it almost masks her dilating pupils.

Almost.

"You didn't answer the question, so let me rephrase. What does _nothing_ mean when you've clearly been injured, _Miss Swan_," I bite out her name.

"It means I bruise easily, and when I'm in Krav Maga, I don't worry about what I might look like the next day." She blinks and shifts away from me.

"Krav Maga?"

"Yes."

"As in you're beating the shit out of men that are attacking you for fun?" My chest tightens, but not as painfully or as constricted as my balls.

"That is the point of the classes, yes." She glances at my fists when my knuckles crack from the pressure.

"And how many men are coming after you?"

"Depends," she answers through a clenched jaw.

"How many last night?"

"Ten at one point, but I've had fifteen before. I'm working up to thirty," she says, her voice tight.

"_Thirty_? Are you serious?" I throw my hands up in the air, turn around and address the class. "Well, Jesus, what the hell is she doing teaching about communication when she's using her fists outside of the classroom?"

She turns toward me, about to say something, but instead she stops breathing and her eyes go soft. Some intense emotion rolls right off her.

I freeze. What the hell is going on?

Why is the air so thick between us? She can feel this shit between us, too, right? I can't be the only one experiencing this electric vibration between us.

"Hey, that's not my usual MO. I'm not an idiot—I need to be prepared. I'm sorry if you're offended I'm doing this. I know it sounds like I don't trust you guys, but that's not why I'm taking those self-defense classes."

I turn around slowly, penetrating my eyes deep inside hers. "Then why are you doing it? You masochistic?"

"No." She licks her lips, slow, deliberate and thoroughly.

_Fucking stroke my cock, woman—might as well with all the vibes you're giving off with that tongue, raping your lips._

"I do it because my brother was killed a few years ago, and I knew he would expect me to be proactive. And believe it or not, I'm actually pretty good at it. It's one of the few things I enjoy during my week that relaxes me."

I snort, and my chest puffs out. "Oh, so sorry we're stressing your white cotton panties right up your crack. Don't teach here if you can't take it." I back up, raking my eyes over her from head to toe.

She smirks. "I do love teaching here. It's not stressful per se—only challenging. Like Krav Maga."

She takes a breath.

I move back to my desk. What the fuck else is there left to say? Woman loves a challenge?

Why should I care?

"Thank you, Cullen, for practicing your skills with me, and now I want to point something out for all of you to think about." She heads to the board and writes out in big bold letters: MANIPULATION.

I get up, ready to leave, but when she gives me a knowing look, I approach her instead.

"Bullshit. I wasn't manipulating anything. You responded, and I said what I needed to so you'd quit avoiding the truth. You say you don't mask it, but you're just more adept at it than most." I point at her. "How many times did I have to ask about your elbow, and you never did fucking answer the question."

Newton chimes in, "She did, too. It happened at her workout, you fucker."

I ignore him. "Tell me exactly what happened. Details, Miss Swan. That's the problem with women. They wanna tell you all the specifics about shit you couldn't give a fuck about—how long you waited in line for your celery soup and almond paste sandwich with your green tea. Do I care what you ate, what you read while you stood in line?" I shake my head, sniffing, inhaling that shit up. God. Damn. Drives blood to a man's dick, and thoughts right out of his head.

"Okay, so unlike most men I've encountered, you want to know I was an idiot—that I lashed out and smacked my instructor in the face because he irritates me by asking me out all the time? You wanna know that I wasn't thinking about how hard I was hitting him, the angle I was using, but that I was being insecure—an animal in the moment? Is that you want to hear? He didn't wear a helmet like the rest of us, and I made contact with his jaw, and it freaking hurt. A _lot_. I iced it when I got home, massaged it, but I bruise easily because I'm too damn pale no matter how much sun I get. Does that answer your question?"

God, I want to grab her arm and massage that bruise so badly. To keep from touching her and getting my ass dragged from this classroom, I shove my hands in my pockets. "You should use a rolling pin. Or a tennis ball. You put it on the wall, roll it up and down your elbow, push hard, then ice it afterward. Keep the ice on for a long time. I'm not talking twenty minutes—I'm talking an hour at least. And if it still feels like it'll bruise, then you ice it some more. Don't avoid using your elbow—it'll stiffen up, and then the blood will pool in there. Stretch it real good. Got it?"

"Got it." Her expression goes blank, but her lips are parted and her soft breath pelting my chin has me stirring below like a son of a bitch.

"Next time you use your elbow, don't go for the pointy end, unless you absolutely have to. You use the flat of the elbow, right below the joint. Get what I'm sayin'?"

"That's not what Warren says," she argues.

"Warren's a moron, and I'm not fucking saying that because he bruised you. I'm saying that because everyone knows you can break your elbow by doing careless shit like that." I pull my right hand out of my pocket and grip the back of my neck.

Newton clears his throat. "Uh, should we leave you two alone?"

Masters laughs and says something like I should fucking check for bruises under her skirt.

I _should_.

I should also stop inhaling her luscious scent and wanting to touch her so damn much.

I should back off.

I should stop growing a damn fucking pole in my pants for her.

I should stop jacking off at night, thinking about her.

I should get out of this course.

She's no damn good for me.

"There are more bruises?" I ask her.

Her head drops a little. "_No_."

"Liar." I smirk, drag my hand down my chest and let it drop.

She steps back, angling herself so the desk is now a barrier between us.

"Show us some moves, Miss Swan." Jackson pounds on his desk.

"Maybe another day. I like this skirt. I don't want to split any seams." She blushes for a moment—and fuck if my breathing's stopped.

That embarrasses her?

Newton tells her it's time to go.

"Cullen?" she calls right before I exit the room. "I expect you to answer the question I wrote for you. You can do it orally instead if you want?"

"I can do a lot of things better orally, but that's not one of them. I'm not gonna answer that loaded question. I like keeping my balls intact—thanks." I salute Lionel, then her.

She stops me by calling out my name. "I won't share it with anyone. You have my word."

I cough a laugh. "Uh, yeah, after you've given me the run-around today over something as trivial as a little boo-boo on your elbow, I don't think your word on this is worth shit." I bow.

She marches across the room. "I'm serious. I want you to communicate in here. I realize I haven't been the greatest at helping you to open up and trust me, but I'll find a way to get there. I promise I'll try harder."

My chest does this weird dropping thing where it's hard to breathe. "Fuck—don't change anything for me. I don't need this class. Just do what you do, Swan." I tuck my hands in my pockets once more so I don't grab her and kiss her. Why do I want to kiss her? I don't care about shit like that.

"Then what can I do better so you'll participate?" Her eyes turn down.

"Hey, look at me for starters, and when I ask a question, then I want an answer. I only ask the stuff I really wanna know, and I always wanna know the details—enough so I know what actually happened."

She blinks twice and wears a blank expression.

"What I don't like is feeling like you're patronizing me. I'm not an idiot. Don't treat me like one." I lean toward her. Yup. That scent is gonna make me lose my shit.

I lean back into my heels a moment later.

Probably look like a fucking Weeble, wobbling around like this.

"I didn't mean to. I apologize."

I swallow. Did she just say she felt bad? "You're not sorry."

Her eyebrows draw up like a damn curtain at a theater. "I am, too. I didn't realize I was offending you so badly."

"Your material offends me. It's not you. Well . . . not until you're hinting at flashing me all the damn time"—I grin—"but hey, maybe you get off on that shit. Torturing an innocent, captivated audience. You've always got your hands all over Mike." I shrug and smile wider.

She barks a laugh, slaps her thigh. "I _am not_ doing any of that."

"Give me that phone next class"—I jerk my head at the phone on the wall—"and I'll pretend to take some pictures for you so you can finally figure what you do to these sexually repressed guys." I smirk, and leave her gawking after me.

.

.

.

I head into the chow hall and Emmett's missing. Where is he?

Did he stay after yoga again to talk to Ms. Hale?

He's got it fucking bad for her.

I groan, grab a tray and get my food.

Miss Swan's scent is lingering in my head. Did it seep into my shirt?

Fuck—it's like she's standing behind me.

In order to get my mind off her and get my hard-on to dissipate, I think about the last job I did.

It doesn't work.

God, she's a pain in the ass.

So why do I spend so much time going over details—the way her eyes light up when she smiles, the rough, gritty texture of her intense laugh, or the way her hair moves when she walks.

Jesus, I'm pathetic.

I find a relatively solitary place to sit and eat.

A few people pass by and grunt my name, acknowledging my presence—but other than that, they all leave me the fuck alone.

I'm sure I look like a PMSing vagina in need of Midol.

Why am I so tense? Why does Miss Swan matter at all?

I hate that class. It's beneath me.

When I'm done picking at my food, I empty my tray and stack it on top of the others, but I keep a few napkins and stuff them in my pockets, since someone's still taking my shit. I may not have any toilet paper, so I might need these.

I have no idea how they keep picking my lock on my drawer under my bed, and whenever I ask around, no one's seen anything suspicious in our dorm.

The second I'm out the doors, Bruce is in my face, two of his guys surrounding me on both sides.

"Have you done what I've asked yet?" Bruce says through his teeth.

"No, you fucker—and I'm not gonna. What part of this equation are you missing?"

He slams my shoulder into the wall, and one of his guys tells him to hurry up.

"Do it, Cullen, or I'll hit that little pussy of a teacher you've got your eye on." Bruce sneers. "Ssssssnnnnnnuuuuuuh!" he inhales in a long, deep drag. "Shit—she smells like a hot piece of ass. Maybe I'll enroll in that class, huh? How'd you like that? If I show you how this shit's done? She probably needs a man desperately, and you know I'm always hard." He starts unbuckling his belt, and I know what happens next.

"Fuck you!" I push him out of my face, and one of his guys comes at me, but I shove him back harder than I did Bruce.

"She's mine! I'll have her!" Bruce hollers after me and then laughs.

I jog out to the yard, and of course, there was a guard right around the corner where Bruce had me cornered.

Fucking figures.

He probably owed a Bruce a favor.

I find Emmett blabbing about how tight Rose's ass is.

"Is that Miss Hale?" one of the guys asks.

"Yeah. She wasn't supposed to tell me her name, but it just slipped. She's interested in me—I know she is." Emmett beams nothing but confidence and hope.

I snicker and walk away.

He's delusional.

I'm restless. My mind races between Bruce's threats and my stupid-ass obsession with Miss Swan.

Jesus, what am I supposed to do?

I can't help. Even if I wanted to, what he wants is impossible.

I take a seat at a table a few feet away from Emmett and compose my answer for Miss Swan.

Before I realize it, I've pulled out my pen from class and write on one of the napkins I took from the chow hall.

_What rape means to me, regardless of gender_ . . . _Rape is breaking someone because you can, and it's mental, and it's brutal, and it's ugly. It's turning a soulless monster into another thing entirely. It's forgetting that humanity exists because we have choices, and we govern ourselves in a way we don't trample on another person's freedoms. Prison is rape. It takes men—like me, Newton, Masters, and Jackson—who maybe stole some shit, laundered money, liked shiny fast expensive cars, or forged documents, and wound up here where the degree of a mistake doesn't matter. The truth is expunged out of you, and you're a rag. You're a fucking tool to clean someone's ass with. Forget toilet paper—you're it. That's rape._

_It's being less than a human, and the person taking, the person receiving—they're both reduced into something inhuman. It's a variation on murder, and I am not a murderer. If I take something, it's something I can give back. If I take your dignity, I can fix that. If I get in your mind, take over a little, fucking with your head—I can fix that, too. Maybe with cuddling, like you described to Jackson, or maybe it's by warning you that you sitting on that desk, skirt rising up, I want to do anything but listen to you. I want to be the man that can't stop taking, because you're raping my freewill—making me unable to look anywhere else but at your hidden pussy right in front of my fucking face. That's rape._

I wad it up and stuff it in my pocket.

Toilet paper would've been better. Who writes on napkins?

A fucking douche like me.

**A/N:**

**He can borrow my napkin anytime. Damn…**

**So, some good news. Ready? I sent my beta several more chapters, so as she sends them back to me, I'll be able to post them. This means my updates should be more consistent for the next little while. I believe I sent her up through chapter 12 because that's how far I've written the story. Love M Go Blue does a great job of keeping me straight so my story isn't going too nuts. What a lucky lady I am to have her as my beta. Thank you, Love M Go Blue!**

**All right, let me know what you think. As usual, if you want teasers, feel free to join my facebook group. The address is in my profile.**

**Thank you everyone for your kind words of encouragement. I love reading your reviews, but unfortunately, for the next few months, I won't have time to answer very many of them. I'm busy as hell publishing—I'm scheduled to put a story each month clear through until May. So, if you really want to reach me, ask me questions about the story, contact me or whatever, the best way is usually through facebook or twitter. I'm on those all the time, but I'm only on fan fiction when I'm updating.**

**Chanse**


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